


Take the Jackpot Out the Fruit Machine

by halotolerant



Series: View from the Afternoon [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, First Time, Large Cock, M/M, Reunion Sex, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighty-nine days since they parted, since last Hannibal touched Will, since last Hannibal allowed himself to climax, and he’d live all that three times - ten times - over, if this was his reward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the Jackpot Out the Fruit Machine

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompts: 
> 
> _The massive cock/phone sex fill was amazingly hot, could you please write a continuation where they meet up? Thank you so much!_ & _"Anticipation" is great, could you please write a second part if you're so inclined? I have a mighty need to see Hannibal get his after eighty-nine days of no release._
> 
> THANK YOU NICE PROMPTERS! *g*

take the jackpot out the fruit machine

 

-

 

Will appears in view, wheeling his case through the corridor leading from the baggage claim to the airport’s Arrivals area, and Hannibal, shocked with need, finds his body clenches down involuntarily, and has to bite his lip against a cry.

 

The silicone plug he inserted an hour ago is a presence that he’s grown more accustomed to in the past two days of intermittent use. He’s become familiar with the sweet longing that comes with the faint burn of the stretch and the fullness, and with the need to move carefully to avoid over-stimulation. 

 

The presence of Will Graham, however, he may need time to relearn how to cope with. 

 

Indeed, if he is honest with himself, is that a skill he ever possessed?

 

It takes seconds for Hannibal to compose himself - or, at least, to relax his muscles, because there is little he can do about his heart rate - but that’s longer than he would generally pride himself on. 

 

And then Will actually _sees_ him, and Hannibal can see the expression breaking over Will’s face like the sun rising, and all control is lost again and Hannibal swallows another whimpering sound.

 

He knew from that day, months ago, that Will had chosen him. Knew that Will had thought better of his entrapment scheme and elected to help Hannibal escape rather than deliver him to the clutches of the FBI. 

 

It was possible to deduce from that that Will’s apparent affection for him was true, and not negligible. 

 

But seeing Will, now, like this, here? 

 

Seeing the way Will looks at him?

 

It’s more than he dreamed. And he dreams more lucid and demanding than most. 

 

Will’s joy is so apparent, indeed, that Hannibal manages to spare an iota of logical, rational mental process to fear that Will might actually call out his name - not that anyone here, on the other side of the world, is particularly likely to care. 

 

But Will, instead, is running. 

 

Will is running to him, dropping the handle of his case and his cabin bag, and opening his arms. 

 

And Hannibal is being knocked into – almost knocked down – and kissed, really for quite a while before he can believe or do anything about it. 

 

 _Will, Will, Will…_ this might be a dream. 

 

“Darling,” Hannibal manages to choke out, gruff, just like it’s a dream and there’s no need for caution, no need to keep back any bargaining chips, maintain any walls.

 

And all of a sudden he can’t move fast enough, far enough. He reaches up to cup the back of Will’s head, feels the smooth curve of his skull and the long curls slightly damp and fusty after hours on a plane. His other palm craves the matching curve of Will’s sweet posterior, but this is not the place, and he satisfies himself with the small of Will’s back. At the touch Will makes a high-pitched whine and his hips buck against Hannibal’s once, apparently uncontrolled. 

 

Will is partway hard, and Will partway hard is already… generously evident, compared to most. 

 

And Hannibal can’t help another inner clench, a vain attempt by his own body to meet the ache he has for Will inside him, meeting only inanimate rubber. 

 

Under his hands and lips, though, Will is live and visceral and real and present, and finally, finally here and with him. 

 

“Fuck,” Will whispers, reverently, and draws back, studying Hannibal’s face again with darting, hungry eyes. “Fuck, I missed you. I needed you. And that call, last night? Fuck you.” He’s whispering even more quietly now, words just for the two of them. “Fuck you, Ha-“

 

He catches himself, swallowing the name, and grins, almost laughing, self-conscious, seemingly disbelieving of the situation – of the fact that this is reality – as much as Hannibal. 

 

Will’s smile, and his eyes so bright, so happy. A rare, glorious sight, this always was before. 

 

Now Hannibal just might devote the rest of his life to bringing this out over and over and over again. 

 

And Will licks his lips, tongue darting. A simmer comes into that stare. 

 

He leans in again. 

 

“Like I was saying, you’ve got me thinking about one thing, and one thing only, and I want to fuck you… darling,” Will says, not all that quietly now. 

 

Hannibal tries to talk and can’t. His mouth is completely dry, his throat congested. Also his legs might have melted. 

 

He swallows, hard. 

 

“Then please, if you will accompany me?” he says after a long moment, courteous as he can. 

 

“Of course,” Will tells him, serious for a moment. 

 

They share another smile. They are gormless and grinning and infatuated, and Hannibal knows how much he’d despise seeing any other two people act this way around each other, and doesn’t care in the slightest. 

 

He and Will, always, are the only ones who really count. 

 

Although there is Abigail, of course, back at the new house, looking after herself for the weekend whilst Hannibal and Will reunite, stocked up with popcorn, Netflix and her new crafting project. She’s making an embroidery using her own hair, in abundance for use since she cut it short, and she is recreating on linen an image of a knife. It seems to be doing her good. 

 

Their daughter, though, is a thought for later, and Hannibal merely lets himself note the future promise of Will’s surprise with pleasure, and turn back to the moment. 

 

After all, here and now in this moment, Will’s hand in his and they are walking, pacing - not quite running, but striding fast - through all the white blank dullness of the airport and to the stop for the shuttle bus that will take them to the uninspiring, but ideally situated, hotel where Hannibal has been staying. 

 

Booking the ‘Regal’ suite had seemed too ostentatious and likely to attract attention, which was something of a shame although the hotel’s idea of fine decor is frankly not Hannibal’s, and he’s been asking at reception for the contact details and business card of their interior designer. 

 

It is to one of the several 'Luxury Plus Deluxe' suites, therefore, that Hannibal can eventually lead Will, after a bus ride that seems to last several epochs. Will, who has evidently been ruminating on their phone call as much - perhaps even more - than Hannibal would have liked, once on the bus had gone immediately to sit down, dragging Hannibal by the hand with him. 

 

The vibrations of the engine, therefore, had travelled up Hannibal’s straining, eager body, and transmitted rather directly through the base of his plug and onto a distinctly sensitive area. 

 

Hannibal prides himself on his self control, but he had found it necessary to grip to the nearest handrail until his knuckles whitened, and breathe extremely carefully, fighting the impulse to touch himself or Will or simply to let the heat blend into rage and…

 

And then Will had taken his hand, a look of such tender, fierce, indulgent cruelty on his face, and made it clear that Hannibal was to feel free to dig in his nails. 

 

It had been a struggle of some proportions not to lash out and bite him in devotion. 

 

Or go to his knees, somehow, in the squashed space of the seat, and open Will’s trousers to find his prize where it swelled and grew, and grew, throbbing in tune – had to be, they were linked – with Hannibal’s full-but-empty, aching awareness.

 

Safely into the room, then, and with the door closed behind them, Hannibal wastes no time in pouncing. 

 

Will is borne down on to the bed, and licked, bitten, tasted, _consumed_ almost to the very best of Hannibal’s ability, at least until the extreme disadvantage that either of them being clothed finally registers in his mind, and he lets up to allow them to strip. 

 

Taking advantage of this moment’s freedom, though, Will gets up off the bed and is soon standing on gratifyingly wobbly legs and staring Hannibal down. His neck is bruised, top buttons torn open, and his lip bleeding, his chest heaves as he pants and his trousers are obscenely tented and growing damp at the peak. 

 

“Ready, you said, on the phone,” Will gasps, "for me to simply take it out and enter you.” He grunts, and reaches out for Hannibal’s waist area, going for his belt and then his fly, pushing down trousers and underpants until Hannibal’s stiff cock is visible, flushed and fully erect. 

 

But Hannibal isn’t thinking about his cock right now, and he finds he can only moan with wordless agreement and allow himself to be turned round to brace on the bed, hearing Will unzip behind him. 

 

Bent over, feet apart, he’s fully exposed to Will’s sight, and he wonders how he looks, now. The plug will be just a black circle of the base, but oil and sweat are dripping down his crack, he can feel that - or thinks he can, sensations having become somewhat indistinct, all sublimated into need.

 

He can hear Will gasping. 

 

“Fuck, darling,” Will murmurs – the endearment, already, seems easy, natural - and he’s plastered, suddenly, over Hannibal’s back, and kissing the base of his neck. 

 

Hannibal pushes back against the friction of his touch, wiggling his behind like an animal, desperate, aching. 

 

He’s rewarded with another endearment from Will, and Will’s fingers grasping at the base of the plug. Then the plug is moving, Will pulling it out slowly, oh so agonizingly slowly, and Hannibal is being stretched and teased and set on fire, and the _sound_ it makes as the largest part passes through him…

 

“You took this,” Will is saying, with something like awe. “You really did, this is so big, Hannibal, and you…” 

 

“I told you,” Hannibal manages, voice thick. “I would be ready for you. For all of you.”

 

The truth is, he’s experimented with the outer limits of his sexual comfort before in his past, as often as was interesting, and on one occasion he allowed a partner to insert a fist into him, which he found unexciting at the time but with Will… oh there is so much to try again for the first time with Will. 

 

All that matters, though, is that all the things which Will seems to think make him unloveable, untouchable, impossible to be attached to, are things Hannibal is more than ready to take on. 

 

They were made for each other, Hannibal thinks, and then again, more fiercely and with curses in several languages, as Will takes him at his word and lines up to where the plug was, and slides in with one slick glide. 

 

Full. Hot. Thick. Hannibal is being touched everywhere, it feels like, and all his nerves are part of the sweet spot now, and Will is touching, touching, touching…

 

Will cries out and shifts to push them both more over the bed, one of his hands finding Hannibal’s where it clenches at the foul fake-silk counterpane and threading their fingers together. Will is gripping hold like he’s the one struggling, like he’s the one overwhelmed, and he’s gasping with each thrust. 

 

Hannibal can feel himself pulsing out little blurts of fluid from his cock whenever Will grazes his prostate. He’s not sure when or how he’s going to come, or whether maybe he is already. 

 

The point, now, isn’t even that - it’s that Will is here, _with_ him; as much with him and held by him and joined with him as one human being can be with another. 

 

Eighty-nine days since they parted, since last Hannibal touched Will, since last Hannibal allowed himself to climax, and he’d live all that three times - ten times - over, if this was his reward. 

 

But they don’t have to be parted, not anymore. 

 

Will is saying something, almost chanting it, and Hannibal focuses enough to listen. 

 

“Mine,” Will is saying, fierce, vicious, ecstatic. “Mine!” 

 

HIs hand clutches Hannibal’s so hard the bones grate. 

 

And then Will is shuddering, frozen, heat from him filling up all the space in Hannibal he didn’t even know he had left, and Hannibal feels all the sensation in his body gather between his legs and then explode out, and they fall, together, onto the bed. 

 

Hannibal can’t think, can’t breathe, maybe can’t even see for a while. 

 

Somehow, together, they roll onto their sides, Will spooning round Hannibal’s back. He’s still in Hannibal, still half-hard and too big to fall out easily in any case. 

 

“Mmmm,” Will murmurs, and sucks his own bruise onto Hannibal’s neck. He takes their still-joined hands, and idly rubs the split fluids into the hair on Hannibal’s belly. 

 

Dreamily, Hannibal lets himself clench down again. Will is there, still, with him, real. 

 

“Soon,” Will says, laughter in his voice. “We’ve got plenty of time."

 

**Author's Note:**

> _Anticipation has a habit to set you up  
>  For disappointment in evening entertainment but  
> Tonight therell be some love  
> Tonight there'll be a ruckus yeah, regardless of what's gone before_
> 
> _I want to see all of the things that we've already seen  
>  I want to see you take the jackpot out the fruit machine  
> And put it all back in  
> You've got to understand it you can never beat the bandit, no_
> 
> (Arctic Monkeys, 'The View from the Afternoon')


End file.
